


darkness, welcoming

by portraitofemmy



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Dom/sub, Enthusiastic Consent, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Sub Quentin Coldwater, Vampire Eliot Waugh, Vampire Typical Blood Play, Vampires Adopt Millennial Culture, Vampires With Consent Practices, vampire morality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 16:17:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21274082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: Quentin Coldwater has always suspected there is more to the world than meets the eye. But when he stumbles into a vampire club, the course of his life will be altered forever.





	darkness, welcoming

**Author's Note:**

> **Content Warning:** The “canon-typical violence” tag refers to the fic’s opening with a fairly graphic depiction of Quentin being bitten, non-consensually, by a vampire. If you would like to give that a miss, skip down to the first section break. It’s all very above board from there on out, though please take note of the tags. But this is Emily does Vampires, after all, it’s a lot of people having soft conversations in quiet rooms and having sex about it. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you so much to [saltandpepperbox](https://saltandpepperbox.tumblr.com/), who watched me write a 17+K fic in four days, rolled up her sleeves, and beta’d it in two. You’re amazing, and I appreciate you so much.

Even Quentin would have to admit that, in a lifetime of self-destructive decision making, this was probably the dumbest self-destructive decision he’s ever made. 

It’s not like he set out to find the club full of vampires with the _intention_ of it getting him killed, honestly. It was more the burning desire to _know_, to _understand_, to justify the feeling he’s had since childhood that there was _more_ to the world than meets the eye. So when discussion about supernatural creatures of the night kept cropping up online, again and again, in the kind of way that made it seem like it was something of an open secret, something you could be _in the know_ about– well, he figured either it was a kinky sex thing, or there was some truth to it.

It seemed like it might be a kinky sex thing even if there was some truth to it. People online got off on that shit _hard_. 

He couldn’t understand it at all, now, as fear and adrenaline spike through him. Not a single thing about this is sexy or fun, the bite on his neck _hurts_, and the woman pinning him to the wall is too _strong_, he can’t break away and her grip is like a vice on his arms. He’s going to have bruises in the shape of her hands.

If– if he has enough blood left.

He’s getting woozy, head spinning, and his fight or flight reflex is giving up the goat, honestly, too focused on struggling for consciousness to try to get away from her. He thinks he might have been screaming, at one point, but it’s stopped now, and everything’s going gray around the edges and–

He’s going to die this way, he realizes, and it probably says something about him that he feels more shame than fear at that idea. Julia’s going to have to– she’s going to– she–always picking up his messes_–_

Seconds skip by without Quentin knowing, and he’s just– everything’s gray and he’s just thinking _maybe I’ll get to see my dad again–_ when the girl pinning him to the wall is wrenched away. He thinks he whimpers, probably, as her fangs are yanked out of his flesh, but the tug of gravity is too strong and the world was already spinning but now there’s nothing holding him up and he’s–

–dizzy–

–falling–

–caught? 

There’s an arm around his shoulders, and someone’s talking, murmuring words that Quentin _can’t quite focus on_– The arm around him is strong, and then he’s tucked in against something soft and solid– a chest? Maybe? Attached to the arm? That would make sense. Quentin blinks, trying to clear his fuzzy vision, but everything’s grey on the edges. There’s a man holding him, he thinks, dark hair and pale skin and that’s really all he can see. Watches the man bring own wrist up to his mouth for a moment and then bring it down to press against the side of Quentin’s throat where he’s–

It _hurts, _and he might be screaming again if he had any voice left except–

It doesn’t hurt as much, suddenly, a pleasant numbness filtering out from the points of pain on Quentin’s throat. Whatever just– happened, it’s maybe– helping?

Or maybe Quentin’s actually dying, now.

He opens his mouth to ask, because it seems like the kind of thing men who pulled vampires off you in dark alleys would know, but he passes out before he gets the words out. 

––

He wakes up in a dim room.

Which is less ominous than it sounds in his head, really, as he blinks, sitting up a little onto his elbows. It makes something tug in his neck, sending a spiral of pain radiating out and up into his head. His whole body feels shivery and weak, but he looks around the room, trying to put the pieces together.

It’s– a nice room, really, with a big four-poster bed on which he’s currently lying, everything in tones of blue and green and maroon with a deep brown wood floor. Baubles and knicknacks adorn the surfaces and shelves in the room, while art prints decorate the walls, and the windows hang heavy with black-out curtains. The whole room has a kind of bohemian chic feeling, made stronger by the candles scattered about on the desk, and by the bed. Scented candles, bright little pots of light, they give the room a comforting, well lived in feeling, adding the scent of mulling spices to the air.

Quentin has definitely never been here before, and has _no_ idea where he is. 

The door clicks open softly as Quentin finishes the process of sitting up, and the room spins dangerous even at that small action. Spots dance in front of his eyes, and he blinks them away, focusing on the figure who’s stepping into the room. 

There’s the vaguest of memory, from the edges of unconsciousness last night, of a man who’d pulled the girl off of him. This, based on those hazy recollections, must be the very same man. He’s tall and immaculately composed, dressed as he is in a three-piece suite, with soft-looking dark curls falling artfully around his face. 

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” he says, catching sight of Quentin sitting up on the bed, voice rich and deep like velvet. “Quentin Coldwater?”

“Uh huh,” Quentin confirms, still a little stunned, confused, as the stranger steps into the room and closes the door. And he is a stranger, Quentin’s never seen him before. He knows that, because well– this is the kind of person Quentin would be inclined to _remember_. 

“I’m Eliot,” he says, stepping over towards the bed and holding out– a bottle of gatorade? It seems completely incongruent with the other-worldly feeling of this space, but Quentin’s suddenly aware of how fucking _thirsty _he is, so he reaches out and takes it. Spares a moment to wonder if he’s going to be roofied, then kind of– decides not to care, and cracks open the bottle, drinking eagerly. “I’m sorry, I went through your wallet. Taking you to a hospital would have been a big risk, but I wanted to make sure you didn’t have any medical requirements that need special attention.”

Quentin thinks of the bottle of antidepressants, sitting untouched in his medicine cabinet. But that hardly seems relevant and when Eliot’s eyes flick down to his neck, Quentin reaches up to touch it self-consciously. He wonders how mauled he looks. But under his fingers, all he can feel are two tiny scabs, nothing that matched up with the feeling of fangs being wrenched from his neck. He swallows, and looks back to the stranger, who’s still hovering near the doorway. “I guess I should thank you for saving my life?”

Eliot makes a soft _tsk_ sound, reaching out to touch one long finger delicately against the edge of a dresser. “Marina put us all at risk by being careless.”

“Marina?” Oh, that must be the girl– Quentin’s head feels foggy still, and the thoughtful look Eliot is giving him doesn’t help matters. He kind of gets the feeling he’s being x-rayed. _Us_. So is this man– but he has none of the predatory look Quentin had seen in the bar last night. 

“You didn’t know her?” Eliot asks softly, and when Quentin shakes his head, he sighs. “Did you know what she was?”

“I– was– I mean– a vampire?” He starts, stumbling a little, and Eliot nods, still tapping the dresser with his slender fingers. He seems to come to some decision, stepping over to the bed to sit near Quentin’s feet, composed and regal.

“You don’t seem like the normal blood junkies who go to those clubs,” Eliot observes, eyeing Quentin shrewdly. “Most of them know better than to go anywhere near a newly turned fledgling, and Marina’s so fresh she’s practically feral. Her sire shouldn’t have let her out alone yet.”

This is– a lot of things to process, so Quentin takes another sip of Gatorade to buy himself time. “Blood junkies?” he asks, because yeah, whatever, Eliot’s assessment of him is probably true, so there’s no point in pretending to know more than he does.

Eliot’s mouth quirks, soft pink lips framed by dark stubble, and– does he have fangs hidden under there? He’d said _‘us’_ before. That’s absolutely why Quentin’s stare at his mouth and no other reason. “Humans,” Eliot explains, with the kind of inflection that indicates _other_, something different than himself, “–who like being... fed from. It’s a gauche term, perhaps. There were more sophisticated ones, in other times. Other places. But in the here and now, they allow those of us who would prefer not to take human life– to have an alternative.”

“Oh,” Quentin breathes out, thinking of all the discussions he’d seen online, of the people who talked about vampires like it was a fun little kink. Eliot speaks with a delicacy, a gentleness which Quentin finds soothing, somehow. He doesn’t feel like a threat. Quentin takes another sip of his drink, then admits, “I just wanted to know if it was real.”

Eliot nods, like this is a reasonable thing to want and not– a ludicrously dangerous thing that almost got Quentin killed. “It’s real,” he says, still studying Quentin with a kind of open curiosity. “You’re less... alarmed, than I was expecting. Especially if you didn’t set out to seek this.” 

“I have about a million questions,” Quentin admits, because he does, he has _so many_, they’re clamoring around inside his head, all twisted up and tangled and until he can’t think straight enough to ask a single one. And, well: “But my head kind of hurts. A lot. And I’m like– freezing cold.”

“You lost a good deal of blood,” Eliot says, voice bordering on wry amusement. “I stopped the bleeding in your neck but– you should probably sleep some more. Drink, first, then sleep. I can answer your questions after, with some conditions.”

“I should– how long was I asleep?” Quentin asks, wondering all of a sudden if he’s sent anyone into a panic looking for him. The dark, cynical part of Quentin’s mind wonders if anyone would notice, even if has been days.

“About 24 hours,” Eliot says, glancing down the watch he’s wearing. “I believe you woke up briefly, 6 hours ago, when we took out the IV drip we’d put you on, but–”

“We?” Quentin asks, curiosity clambering up in his mind even as exhaustion weighs on him. 

Eliot gives a little smile, and looks– charmed, almost. “There’s a– family, you might say, of us here. All made by the same sire, though we’ve struck out on our own. I promise, little human, I will answer your questions after you sleep.”

“Hey,” Quentin protests, because he’s not– well, he’s not _that_ short. But something in the way Eliot says it sounds– fond, like a master speaking to a favorite pet, and Quentin’s. Less put off by that idea than maybe he should be. Eliot still smiling at him, enigmatic but curious, and Quentin’s staring at his mouth again. Distractedly, he says “I should probably check-in... do you know where my phone is?”

“I charged it,” Eliot says, nodding towards where Quentin’s phone is sitting on the bedside table, next to a softly flickering maroon candle. 

“Vampires have iPhones?” Quentin asks, stretching over to pick it up, thumbing the screen open.

“Some of us do,” Eliot says, then leans in conspiratorially. “Some have Androids, but that’s a bit of a taboo.”

Quentin blinks, staring at Eliot in puzzlement for a moment, trying to think that one out. Why would one be fine but not the other– but then there’s a twitch in the corner of Eliot’s mouth, like he’s biting back a smile. “You’re fucking with me,” Quentin acuses, and Eliot starts laughing.

“Just a bit,” Eliot admits, his voice rich with amusement. 

“Well fuck me for waking up in a room _surrounded by candles_ and thinking electricity might be a touchy subject,” Quentin grumbles, looking back down at his phone. He’s got one message from Julia, dated 2 hours ago and that’s it. 

“I like the aesthetic,” Eliot says with a shrug, tossing his head in a way that makes his soft dark curls bounce. Quentin has to admit, it works for him. 

Julia’s message is just a meme, sent to the group chat with him and James. James’s read recipe says he’s seen it, but there’s no reply, which probably means they’re together wherever they are. Quentin sighs, sends back a half-hearted laugh emoji, and tosses his phone onto the bed, feeling suddenly exhausted. 

Eliot’s still watching him with that mild curiosity, but whatever he’s thinking, he doesn’t bother to comment on it. “Finish your drink,” he says softly instead, nodding towards the half-empty bottle of gatorade. “Then sleep.”

Quentin nods, slumping back into the pillows. He doesn’t quite manage to finish the drink though, barely aware of Eliot moving in to catch the bottle out of his hand as he drifts off once more.

__

“I’ll tell you as much as I can,” Eliot promises, later, when they’re sitting on the foot of the bed. Quentin has another bottle of gatorade, blue this time, and Eliot had brought him a sandwich. It turned out to be a BLT with avocado, of all things, but Quentin’s not going to complain. He’s fucking starving, and the bacon alone tastes amazing.

“But not everything,” Quentin asks, around his mouthful of food, and Eliot gives him a long suffering look, like Quentin talking with his mouth full is a long-standing argument they’ve had before. 

“There’s some things it would be safer for you not to know,” Eliot admits, hands folding delicately across his stomach. He’s not eating or drinking, which– makes _sense_, but Quentin can’t shake the feeling he’s being rude, eating when Eliot isn’t. “You said you have questions?”

Of course, the only questions Quentin can think of off the top of his head are _‘what can’t I know’ _ and ‘_why is it safer’_ which seems... not in the spirit of the thing, somehow. He takes another bite of his sandwich, thinking while he chews. “How old are you?” 

Eliot smiles, a little surprised, like he wasn’t expecting Quentin’s question to concern him. “I was born in the year 1846, and became as I am now in 1873. So either I’m 28 years old or 174. My vanity would prefer the former but my guess is that’s not what you were after.”

“I was expecting you to be older,” Quentin says, thoughtlessly, then cuts his eyes up to Eliot when he thinks about the words that just left his mouth. Is that rude? It’s probably rude.

But Eliot just smiles indulgently. “I am young, by many standards, but not the youngest in our house. My– brother, shall we say? Was turned in the 1960s. Penny’s the youngest here. Our sire may have made others, but– we left before it happened.”

“Who’s your sire?” Quentin asks, trying out the word on his tongue. It feels archaic, but in a way that’s kind of– exciting? Curiosity burns in him, and he takes another huge bite of sandwich to give Eliot the chance to answer.

Eliot clucks his tongue again, licking his thumb and reaching forward to wipe a smear of avocado off the corner of Quentin’s mouth. His finger is cool against Quentin’s skin, and it lingers for a moment. “No one you would have occasion to know. And even if it would mean something to you– that might be a secret you’re safer without.”

Quentin makes a face, but accepts the gentle deflection as promised. “Why’d you leave?”

“Because we don’t want to kill humans,” Eliot says, mildly, and his eyes flicker down to the healing-over scar on Quentin’s neck. “It’s a– delicate topic, among our society. Should we hold regard for human life, or consider ourselves above it? In our house, we bite only with the consent of the bitten.”

Images of the club flash into Quentin’s mind, it’s low couches and hidden alcoves, boys and girls alike with open neck shirts, the smell of _bodies_ on the air, blood and sex and sweat. “How often do you need to eat?” Quentin asks, around his mouthful of sandwich, and Eliot smiles again, sharper this time. Quentin thinks maybe he can see the edge of a pair of long pointed teeth.

“You’re so curious,” Eliot purrs, voice rich velvet that makes Quentin feel hot all over. He’s weirdly kind of grateful that he probably doesn’t have enough extra blood right now to worry about getting an inopportune erection. “It depends. Human blood is the most filling, but not all we can consume. Penny, our youngest, has chosen not to take that route. It’s easier, for him, because he’s not breaking habits the rest of us have ingrained for centuries. Cow or pig blood will sustain us, but must be consumed often. As often as humans eat, multiple times a day. Human blood will last us longer. If you drink your fill, either from one source or from several, it can last a week. I haven’t eaten since the club, two days ago now, but that evening was– interrupted .”

“Yeah, um.” Quentin coughs, looking sheepishly up at Eliot from under the fall of his hair. “Thank you? I’m sorry?”

Eliot waves his hand, clearly dismissive, settling back against the post of the bed. “I will simply have to go back. I can supplement with animal blood in the meantime. It’s no hardship. Feeding smaller amounts more frequently helps reduce the desire to– drain a person, in my experience.”

Quentin remembers the feeling of blood loss, swimming in his head, the frantic rabbit-fast beat of his heart, slamming away in his chest with no way of knowing that it was doing more harm than good. Appetite gone, suddenly, he puts the sandwich down, reaching instead for the bottle of gatorade. He can’t stop thinking about the dizziness, the way the world had closed in on him. Whatever’s happening on his face must read as fear to Eliot, because he sits forward, meeting Quentin’s eyes with some urgency. 

“I’m not nearly hungry enough to be out of control. I won’t hurt you, Quentin,” Eliot says, softly, reaching forward to brush his fingers against the back of Quentin’s hand. They’re still cool, not waxy like dead flesh, but chilly nevertheless, like Julia’s get in the winter. 

Quentin flips his hand, catching Eliot’s fingers with his. They really are lovely, long and slender, wrapped in fine, intricate rings. “I take it the silver-burns-vampires thing is a myth?” Quentin asks, brushing his thumb against one ring. Eliot hums in agreement. “You’re so cold.”

“We, uh–” Eliot’s voice sticks a little, and he has to clear his throat, but his hand stays loose, letting Quentin play with it. “I would be warmer, if I’d fed on something living recently. The longer we go without feeding, the more heat we lose.”

“Do you feel cold?” Quentin asks, sliding his palm along the back of Eliot’s hand, rubbing friction heat into his skin. 

“Not until I’m touching you,” Eliot says, quietly, eyes fixed on Quentin’s face like he’s never seen another person before. Then he seems to realize himself, draws his hand back. Quentin lets him go, feeling slightly bereft. 

“So what happens to me now?” He asks, pulling his knees up to his chest so he can wrap his arms around them, settle into a little ball. 

Eliot tips his head, a furrow of confusion maring his brow. “Well. You should drink and sleep more, but then you are free to do as you please. I assume you have a life you’re eager to get back to.”

Right. His life– the apartment he has with Julia, who he sees on the rare occasion she’s there and not staying at James’ place. Classes at Columbia, where he can’t quite seem to make friends with anyone in his cohort. His mother, who calls him twice a year, on his birthday and Christmas.

“Oh,” he says, faintly, looking away from Eliot’s curious stare. It didn’t feel right, somehow, to go back to his life knowing that there was _so much more_ in the world. But– what’s he going to do, keep crashing in Eliot’s bed? The idea makes him flush hot, and Eliot reacts, twitching a little like he wants to reach out and is holding himself back. “I didn’t know– if now that I _know_–”

“You wouldn’t be allowed to leave?” Eliot fills in, tilting his head curiously. “You saw how many people where are at that club, Quentin. People who know, they know. People who don’t, won’t believe you.”

Quentin nods, because, well. He’d wondered if it was an open secret, and apparently it is. So he’ll– go back to his life, only now he’ll be in the know. It’s dissatisfying, somehow, and doesn’t stop him desperately wanting to ask _Can I see you again?_ He bites it back, picking a piece of bacon out of his sandwich to chew on.

“Did you have more questions?” Eliot asks, gently, and it seems– kind? It would be easy to take the silence as an excuse to bow out, but it’s like Eliot _wants _to stay and answer his questions.

They talk for hours, until Quentin’s fighting sleep with every blink. Still, Eliot stays, hand cool over Quentin’s, until he drifts to sleep.

––

He doesn’t realize how much of a mess he is until he gets home. At some point in the first twenty four hours of unconsciousness, someone had seen fit to remove and wash his bloody shirt, but that doesn’t change the fact that Quentin’s gone 3 days in the same clothes, without bathing. It’s not, admittedly, the longest he’s ever gone on like this, but it is the first time he’s ever been mentally present enough to really appreciate how gross it feels. 

So he spends about 30 minutes in the hot water of the shower, until his skin is pink and pruney with it. Scrubbing the steam off the mirror in the bathroom, he looks at the skin on his neck, the two tiny scabbed over punctures which are all that remained of Marina’s bite. Eliot had explained that it was his blood that had healed Quentin’s injured neck. Vampire blood, smeared over an open wound, would accelerate the healing at a rapid pace. Soon, that too would be gone, and then Quentin would have nothing left of it.

Scrubbed down and in clean clothes, Quentin curls up to sit on the couch with his journal in his lap, writing down every single thing he can remember, every detail of Eliot’s room, of the house they’d walked through when Quentin left that evening. He wrote down every answer Eliot had given him, as much as he could remember, and then drifted into description of the man himself. Eliot’s pale skin, the hazel color of his eyes, the dark ringlets of curls tumbling around his forehead, Quentin didn’t want to lose a single bit of it.

He finds himself rereading those pages in his journal over the next couple days, obsessing. It feels more and more like a dream, fading with each passing day. Had Eliot’s voice been as rich as Quentin remembers, really? Had he really listened and spoken with such kindness? Had he been real at all, or some stress and loneliness provoked hallucination?

It just so happens that there is a cafe across the street from a certain club, which stays open until 10pm. Quentin, being an over-extended grad student, naturally spends a good deal of his time in cafes. The fact that _this particular_ cafe is well outside the 20 minute walking radius of both his apartment and of campus is neither here nor there. But Quentin begins to haunt it, taking seats by the window where he can watch the comings and goes out of the club. He wonders, absently, over the tops of his books, which of the beautiful people in beautiful clothes coming in and out of the little club are humans. Which ones are something more. 

He’s mostly given up on seeing Eliot. 

But, on his fifth night at his new study haunt, Quentin glances up in time to see a familiar tall form meandering down the street just after sundown, arm in arm with a woman with tan skin and a blood-red dress. Quentin’s up and out of his seat in a flash, stuffing his book into his bag and darting out of the cafe. 

It’s not until he’s well into the club that he’s realizing, _yet again_, that he didn’t think this through. He’s got no idea how to find Eliot in the crowd, no idea if Eliot would even want to see him again if he can. He is, again, alone in a room full of predators, left feeling incredibly out of place in his hoodie and jeans surrounded by people who have clearly dressed to be noticed, one way or another. 

But, as it happens, a single once around is enough to find Eliot. He’s not exactly hard to find, sitting on a couch up on the narrow walk-way with the woman he came in with, and another person. The boy, a man really, with chocolate-brown skin and shaved bald head, is sprawled out between them. The woman is kissing him, while Eliot’s strokes and kisses at his neck, palm sliding into the open front of the man’s shirt.

Arousal slams Quentin sideways, unexpected and mixing badly with the fear he can’t shake, at being back in this place. But they’re both so lovely, and when the woman pulls back, drawing the man’s wrist up to her red lips, his mouth falls open on what must be a moan. 

Quentin’s just about to bail on the whole operation, say _fuck it_ and stop loitering around this club, when Eliot’s gaze snaps up to him, like he _knows _Quentin’s there, like he’d– known Quentin was watching them. Quentin’s heartbeat picks up, a spike of adrenaline as Eliot tilts his head in invitation, still mouth shallowly at the neck of the man in his lap. 

Quentin could bail. He could, he knows he could. Eliot would let him go. Instead, he takes a deep fortifying breath, and lets his feet carry him up onto the narrow walkway lined by couches. All of the occupied couches are being put to similar use, blissed out humans with vampires attached to their necks or wrists, shameless and open. 

“Well, hello,” Eliot greets him, his hazel eyes dark in the light of the club as Quentin approaches. “What a pleasant surprise. You remember Quentin, Bambi? You helped me put an IV in him.”

The woman (Bambi? A nickname, probably.) pulls back to give Quentin an assessing look. “Mmhm, I remember. He’s still not _that_ cute.” Her teeth, when she speaks, are stained red with blood. Quentin can’t tell if it’s horror or fascination that has him fixed on her mouth, but she notices. Grins wider.

“I thought you weren’t a blood junkie. What are you doing here, little human?” Eliot purrs, amused, eyes raking over Quentin’s appearance, landing on his messenger bag, his shapeless hoodie.

“I’m not,” Quentin says, awkwardly, and truthfully. Just the sight of Eliot’s friend turning back to the man in his lap, her mouth working on his wrist, is enough to make that dizzy-woozy feeling come flooding back. Fuck, why did he come in here. What is he _doing_, what was his plan with this just–

“Maybe we should take our leave, then,” Eliot says, cautiously, and he’s shifting, lifting the blissed-out man from his lap over towards the woman. 

“Eliot,” she says, pulling away from the man again. He makes a soft noise of protest, and both Eliot and the woman move to soothe him, hands petting his head and across his chest. Quentin _shivers_, torn between spikes of fear at the woman’s blood-stained mouth and watching Eliot’s hands, gentle and caressing. The woman gives Eliot a pointed look, and says “You need to _eat_.”

“I will,” Eliot promise, passing the blissed out boy over to her fully. “The night is young, Bambi.”

“I don’t,” Quentin starts, feeling like he should protest, insist he can take care of himself, but– what else was he waiting for, besides Eliot’s time, his attention? “You can stay–”

“I can do many things,” Eliot says calmly, straightening his vest as he stands. He’s– a lot taller than Quentin. How had he managed to forget that? “What I’d like to do right now is talk to you in a place less likely to give you shell shock.”

“They have a new name for that now,” the woman behind him says, and Eliot’s eyes flick towards the ceiling in the fastest eyeroll.

“Play with your food,” he calls back to her, then gestures with an open palm upwards to Quentin. “Shall we go?”

“Yeah– yes,” Quentin stutters, stumbling a little on his own feet as he tries to get turned around in the little walkway. Eliot reaches out to steady him, hand on his back, and Quentin’s cheeks burn but he doesn’t move away. 

Eliot keeps his hand there the whole way through the club. It feels– safe. Quentin feels protected, with Eliot’s hand on him, like a claim. He may be a sheep among the wolves, but as long as Eliot’s hand is on him, he’s spoken for. No one pays them much mind at all.

“There’s a little cafe across the street,” Eliot suggests, as the step out into the night. 

“I, uh– I know,” Quentin agrees, clutching onto the strap of his bag for dear life. “I was just there.”

“Ah,” is all Eliot says in reply, but he doesn’t look creeped out. If anything, he looks a little flattered. “Well, we can’t talk _much_ around others, but maybe we could get something to take with us, walk around for a bit. I hear tell there’s monsters on these streets, but I think we can take it together.”

His eyes are twinkling, teasing but not mocking, and Quentin finds himself relaxing. Despite the weeks of worry, Eliot is as Quentin remembered him being: poised, collected, funny and compassionate. Not so monstrous after all.

“Can you even drink that?” Quentin asks, a while later, gesturing with his own cup to the small latte in Eliot’s hand. 

Eliot’s mouth twitches in the way Quentin remembers means he’s amused by Quentin’s curiosity. “I can, yes. It’s like... candy, I suppose. I can drink it, and I enjoy the taste, but it won’t sustain me, and too much would become... unpleasant.”

“Huh,” Quentin says, digesting this. “Do you ever get cravings for specific things, like– pizza or– Oh! Is the garlic thing real? Can you not eat that?”

“Ah, that one is true– to an extent. It’s certainly not going to kill me, but there’s a chemical in garlic that tastes _terrible_.” Eliot makes a face, and Quentin laughs a little, feeling drawn towards him as they walk. “Honestly, I was raised on the frontier, in what’s Indiana now. The food I ate when I was human was is nothing so much to miss, now.” 

“Did you want to become–” Quentin starts to ask, and part way through realizes that’s an incredible personal question, much more so than anything Eliot’s been willing to answer so far. He cuts a nervous glance over at Eliot, who’s watching him seriously. His lips quirk in a slight smile when Quentin meets his gaze, then turns away, to gaze at the buildings they’re walking past for a moment.

“The change was incredibly painful,” Eliot says, softly, and Quentin reaches out for him on instinct, slide their hands together. Eliot’s is like ice in his, colder than Quentin remembers it being. “But I would have died otherwise, and it... offered me the opportunity to reinvent myself. I traveled through Europe, read Shelley and Byron, saw Oscar Wilde speak. I’ve walked through Paris and Venice and Barcelona by moonlight. I’ve seen the world become a better, kinder, stranger place. I found a family. Even the name I carry now I built for myself.”

“The name?” Quentin starts, and Eliot smiles, stopping their slow walk. 

“Eliot Waugh,” he offers, bending at the waist into a deep bow. It’s ridiculous, and somehow utterly charming.

“Waugh,” Quentin repeats, as Eliot straightens back up, heart skipping a little as Eliot slides their hands together. He squeezes a little, gently, and Quentin wonders absently if Eliot can hear his heartbeat, can feel it. “Like– Evelyn Waugh? _Brideshead Revisited_?”

Eliot hums in agreement, clearly pleased. “You know your literature references.”

“Well, I’m a nerd, and I’m queer. You pick things up,” Quentin mumbles, bubbles of excitement expanding in his chest. They’re _holding hands_, it’s not like Eliot is going to be surprised by this statement– but saying the words _I’m queer_ aloud still carries a special little rush.

“I suppose you do,” Eliot agrees, thumb brushing against the back of Quentin’s hand. It’s _so cold_.

“She, the woman you were with–”

“Margo,” Eliot cuts in, and Quentin nods. _Bambi_, Eliot had called her. Definitely a member of his– house? His family.

“Margo, she said you need to eat.”

Eliot sighs, head tipping back to look up at the stars. Quentin wonders if he’s imagining it, or if there are dark circles under his eyes. He doesn’t remember that, from the last time. Does Eliot look paler than he had, even then?

“She’s right. I’ve been– reluctant to feed. I haven’t drunk from anything living since the night we met, and my system isn’t used to it.” His eyes flick over to Quentin, and he gives a wry smile. “I, despite my own protestations otherwise, am a fallible creature. Eventually I will have to eat, or lock myself away from humanity for long enough to adjust to Penny’s way of doing things. But I don’t want to do that.”

“Then why aren’t you eating?” Quentin wonders, running his thumb along Eliot’s cold hand. Quentin’s not _unfamiliar_ with struggling to feed yourself, but– do vampires have depressive episodes? That seems kind of massively unfair, somehow.

“Seeing Marina attack you like that was– unsettling,” Eliot says delicately. “It’s been a while since I’ve had to confront what we are at our baser natures. The life we’ve built here is so sophisticated that if we want to, we can drink human blood from crystal goblets and pretend we don’t know where it comes from at all. Alice– one of my house-mates, she has an in at a blood bank. Margo and I prefer to drink from people we’re...”

“Fucking?” Quentin offers, remember the blissed out boy splayed out between them.

Eliot’s lips twitch in a bit of a smile. “I would have said _entertaining_. Sex is not necessary for the feeding, though it may be... pleasant.”

“For you or for them?” Quentin asks bluntly, remembering the shudder of pain as Marina’s fangs ripped into him.

“For both, I would like to think,” Eliot muses. “Certainly I’ve never had any complaints. And I have had lovers return again.”

_Lovers_. The words curls like smoke in Eliot’s voice, excitement speeding in Quentin’s veins which feels totally incongruous with the prickles of fear. “They _like it_?”

“They seem too,” Eliot says, hesitantly. “My understanding is that, when time is taken properly, it can feel good.”

Quentin swallows, looking over at Eliot. He’s so handsome in the moonlight, in his suit and tie and long coat. He looks at once both old-fashioned and youthful, at ease in the modern cut of the same style of clothes he would have worn 150 years ago. It’s like time won’t deign to pass judgement on him, but allows him to continue as he would, adapting and retaining parts of himself to fit comfortably in the world. _It can feel good_, he’d said, and Quentin thinks about– Eliot’s hands, cool and slender and clever, cupping Quentin’s neck, his wrist. Holding him still. There’s a little frisson of fear, but it’s small in comparison to the _slam_ of wanting. 

“Would you show me?”

Something complicated flickers across Eliot’s face, excitement and hope and _hunger_. But it’s gone just as fast, locked behind the facade of collectedness. “Not tonight,” Eliot says gently, and when he goes to pull his hand way, Quentin’s stomach sinks. But Eliot’s just moving to take his arm instead, a more intimate touch with Eliot’s hand on the curve of his bicep. “I am going to need to feed quite a lot this evening, and from multiple sources if I don’t want to risk anyone’s life. I won’t put you in a position where I might lose control with you.”

“Oh,” Quentin breathes, feeling oddly touched. It’s not that Eliot doesn’t want him, it’s that Eliot _cares_ about him. Doesn’t want to hurt him. “I guess that’s fair.”

“If, in a day or so, that’s still a... curiosity of yours, that you’d like satisfied, I would be honored to oblige.”

Plenty of time to chicken out. Also plenty of time to talk himself into it. “If I do– how would I– I don’t think I should go back into that club again.”

“No, I’d agree with that, you looked moments from passing out,” Eliot says cheerfully, giving Quentin’s arm a little squeeze. Quentin feels a little lightheaded, for entirely natural blood-related reasons. Eliot drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and murmurs “I don’t know if you’ve heard this, but– some vampires have iPhones.”

“Ah, I’ve heard a rumor,” Quentin agrees, biting down a laugh. Eliot’s face is so close to his, close enough that Quentin can feel the lack of breath from his lips, from a body that no longer needs such paltry things as _breathing_. 

“Then you can text me, if you’re still...” 

“Curious,” Quentin supplies, feeling a bubble of laughter start in his chest. “You’re not the first boy who’s said that to me.”

Eliot grins, the widest smile Quentin’s ever seen from him, and yeah– there’s some sharp teeth there. “I’ll just do it a little,” Eliot cooes, and Quentin’s laughter breaks loose, bright in the stillness of the night.

“Just the tip?” he teases back, and Eliot nods solemnly. Excitement squirms in Quentin’s stomach, and he wants– he _wants_. “Could I kiss you?”

Eliot’s face goes serious, turning to face Quentin fully. Icy fingers come up to brush against Quentin’s cheek, brushing into his hair and down to cup the back of his skull. He _shivers_, and maybe it’s partially from the cold but it’s mostly from the gentleness of the touch, the purposefulness of it.

“Be very still,” Eliot murmurs, voice soft in the night, and then he’s bending down slightly, lips pressing into Quentin’s for a long, slow slide.It’s _cold_, which is unexpected, but gentle and– and– _sweet._ Eliot’s thumb brushes against his cheek and Quentin feels himself _melt_ a little, doing his best to do as bidden, to stay still. It’s easy, to let Eliot lead the kiss. Quentin’s never exactly been a leader in this sort of thing anyway, and Eliot’s just– easy to follow.

He licks his lips, when they part, tasting the remains of a latte on the cool skin, slightly numb like he’s been eating ice cream. Blinking his eyes open, he finds Eliot watching him with a slight trepidation. 

“I’m sorry, I’m not usually this cold–”

“It’s okay,” Quentin promises, and he wants to press up for another kiss, wants to– to open up for Eliot, feel him close, taste his lips and his tongue, but. Eliot’s being careful, and Quentin can make it easier on him. He can wait a couple days, and not push. He reaches out, taking Eliot’s hand in his, bringing it up to kiss the back instead. “You should eat, because you need to, but. I don’t really mind the cold.”

Eliot’s hand tightens in his, just for a moment, then gentles. “I should eat,” he agrees. “Will you walk back with me to the club?”

It feels oddly like... courtship, somehow, something tender and proper, the way Eliot asks. “Yeah, just– don’t make me go in,” Quentin says with wince, but Eliot just nods. 

He leaves Eliot at the club with a kiss to his cold cheek, and an exchange of phone numbers. Quentin has _no_ idea what he’s doing, but at least it’s starting to feel more exciting and less terrifying. 

__

Two nights later, and Quentin finds himself standing outside the weirdly shaped little building he’d convalesce in, tucked in amongst the hustle and bustle of New York City. It _should_ have stood out like a sore thumb, in the mix of classic brownstones and tall modern buildings, but in fact, it was hard to pay attention to it at all. It was like the building wanted to slide right out of his mind, even when he was looking right at it. If he hadn’t been there with the intention of finding and entering it, he probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all.

_Vampire thing_, he thinks, and makes a note to ask Eliot about it after–

After _whatever the fuck_ is going to happen tonight. Probably biting. Possibly sex? Maybe sex _with biting_? He has no idea. 

Still, Eliot had seemed eager over text message, and had invited Quentin back to his home, to give them privacy without infringing upon Quentin’s space. It was surprisingly thoughtful, and Quentin had accepted without much trepidation. Then they’d spend the last couple nights texting, well beyond the time Quentin should have been asleep for class. He might have fallen asleep in his Philosophy of Logic class this morning, but that was at least 50% the lecturer’s fault.

Eliot’s just– _funny_. He texts like he speaks, thoughtfully and with a tinge of older language patterns, but he’s obviously comfortable chatting that way. He uses gifs. He thinks Spongebob memes are _hilarious_. 

Quentin _likes _him, in the kind of way he hasn’t liked anybody in a while. Which is why he’s hovering outside this building that doesn’t want to be noticed, working up the courage to knock. 

“_Oh, just knock already_,” comes a muffled female voice from inside the little house, and Quentin freezes his pacing, staring at the door. There’s the muffled sound of voice, and then a thump, like something hitting a wall. Hesitantly, he raises a hand to knock, barely getting his knuckles to the wood before the door swings open, revealing two women and behind them, looking long-suffering, Eliot.

“Hi cutie,” purrs Margo, who Quentin recognizes from the club the other day, even if she’s dressed down slightly. Even with that, she’s fucking gorgeous, and her smile has a sharpness to it that reminds you that she is at her core, a predator.

The other woman, who has a wild main of brown curls, is dressed so comfortably in jeans and a flannel that Quentin’s brain struggles for a moment to connect “casual butch” and “vampire” while looking at her. But she’s got that sharp, predator grin too, looking him up and down like he’s a– well. A snack?

He’s not a snack.

Except maybe he literally is.

“Hi?” Quentin squeaks out, and Eliot seems to take this as an invitation, nudging Margo out of the way.

“Welcome to The Cottage, Quentin,” he says, sounding exasperated, gesturing for Quentin to come up. Then, to the women, “Surely you _must_ have better things to be doing than this,”

“This is the most exciting thing that’s happened in this house in two months,” says the other woman, leaning back against the door, arms crossed over her chest.

“You brought a girl back _yesterday_,” Eliot complains, and he sounds pinched, turning to Quentin. “Quentin, this is Kady. And you’ve met Margo.”

Margo gives him a salacious wink, and Kady wiggles the fingers of her top hand at him. “_I_ brings girls back all the time. _You_ on the other hand–”

“_I _am going now,” Eliot says pointedly, cooking his hand into the crook of Quentin’s arm to tug him towards the stairs. 

“Remember to hydrate!” Margo calls up after them, and Quentin can _feel_ himself blushing. 

“My apologies,” Eliot says, voice strained, once they’ve reached the relative safety of his bedroom. “Over a hundred years old, all of us, and we still act like children.”

“It’s okay,” Quentin says, relaxing a little now that he’s back in familiar territory. Eliot’s room looks pretty much the same as it had last time Quentin was here, except this time there’s a soft lamp turned on in the corner of the room in addition to the candles. Different candles too, he thinks, the room smells more like herbs and pine then spices. “My best friend and I are the same way.”

“Julia?” Eliot asks, and Quentin nods. “Kady is... perhaps like a sister to me. I was there when she was turned, her and Alice. I helped them grow into this life. Margo is more than that.”

“She’s older than you, right?” Quentin asks, watching Eliot’s face with fascination. He seems almost shy, like– well, like he’s just introduced a boy he likes to his family. It makes something fond expand in Quentin’s stomach.

“Indeed. It was the two of us alone for a good long while. She’s the first our sire changed.” Eliot’s hands fold properly in front of himself, like he’s not entirely sure what to do with them but is physically incapable of being awkward about it. 

Quentin, who’s awkward even when he tries not to be, bites back the flood of questions pushing at his mind, about their sire, about the house, about the people who live in it. “Why’s it called The Cottage?” is the question that ends up tumbling out, but for some reason, it makes Eliot laugh, relax.

“It’s a bit of a joke,” Eliot admits, gesturing Quentin to sit on the bed, which he does with easy familiarity. It’s weird, but he _missed_ this room. He slept well here. “Our sire lives in a place called The Manor, which is as you would expect with a name like that. So when we built our home here, well. It’s small in comparison, even if the name doesn’t quite fit.”

“It’s nice,” Quentin says, truthfully, toeing of his shoes so he can draw his feet up onto the bed. “Thanks for inviting me back.”

“I can’t believe you wanted to come,” Eliot admits, reaching out hesitant fingers to brush against the back of Quentin’s hand. He feels– warm. Human warm. 

Quentin reaches out, catches his hand before he can draw it away. The fingers are warm and welcoming, sliding through Quentin’s in a way that makes all the nerves in his hands sparkle. “You’ve fed already,” Quentin states, because it's a fact, he can feel it, with his hands. See it with his eyes, when he looks more closely at Eliot. There’s a flush to him that Quentin hasn’t seen before.

“Late last night,” Eliot agrees, and Quentin tries to figure out if he’s– weirdly jealous? “Almost morning, really. I thought, given your last experience, it might be better if there weren't actual _hunger_ involved in this.”

“Oh,” Quentin breathes, any kind of jealousy he might be feeling melting in the face of that thoughtfulness. He keeps being _surprised_, that Eliot is so kind, so empathetic. “Thanks, that’s– uh. Really nice of you?”

“I don’t want to scare you,” Eliot says sincerely, sitting forward with an earnestness that makes Quentin smile. “You’re curious and I’m happy to indulge myself in this, honestly, because you smell _wonderful_, and feel even better. But. I will stop the moment you ask.”

Quentin nods, steeling himself. “So do you just– bite?”

“Ah, no,” Eliot says, and his brows are doing a pinched, unhappy thing. Quentin squashes the urge to reach up and smooth his thumb over the divet between them. “That would hurt you quite a lot, I think.”

“Oh,” Quentin breathes weakly, thinking of Marina’s fangs ripping into the flesh of his neck. "Yeah, um. It did."

Eliot's mouth twists into a troubled line. "Quentin, are you sure you want to do this? You owe me nothing for saving your life, if that's-" 

"Oh!" That thought hadn't even crossed his mind. Maybe it was some kind of inherent selfishness, but he hadn't even stopped to think why Eliot would want to do this, or what he might think of Quentin's motivations. The transaction of feeding had seemed simple enough. "I'm, um. Like you said. Curious?" 

Eliot seems to consider this seriously, his eyes searching Quentin's face. Quentin takes it as permission to look back, admire the smooth line of his jaw, the softness of his dark curls. He's dressed more casual than Quentin seen him yet, and even with that he's still wearing a button up, slacks and a vest. But the shirt is loose and parted at his throat, showing off the long pale column of his neck, and the vest hangs open. He looks positively unmade, and it's more than a little appealing. It makes Quentin run hot, just a bit, and he can't help thinking of the man at the club, the way Eliot had touched him, mouth on his skin. 

"You seemed," Eliot begins, voice soft and inviting in the intimate space between them, "to enjoy being kissed. Perhaps we could begin with that."

Quentin laughs, startled, a little called out. But fuck, it wasn't exactly like it was _untrue_. He'd wanted to melt into a puddle at Eliot's feet with just the simple contact they'd shared the other night. "Yeah, um, I do. I'm kind of a slut for it, actually."

"Mmm, crude. I thought our society as a whole had moved beyond that particular parlance."

"Are you-- calling me out for slutshaming myself?" Quentin asks, incredulous, and Eliot smiles, eyes twinkling teasingly. "Fine, then. Yes, I _enjoy _being kissed. I'm definitely not wanton or over eager about it in anyway, nope, simple enjoyment only--" 

Eliot's laughter is loud and bright, bouncing off the walls of the room. It's nothing like the kind of laughter you'd expect when you think 'vampire,' but so little of Eliot is. Quentin flushes, happy, pleased at Eliot's reaction, his openness. Something in Eliot's eyes darkens, but he's still smiling when he moves in towards Quentin, nuzzling against his cheek. 

“I can smell it when you blush,” Eliot murmurs, lips and nose drawing along the line Quentin’s cheekbone. "Your blood is so-- _sweet_."

Fuck, that's hot. Should that be hot? Quentin has no idea, and it's really hard to make himself dwell on it when Eliot's skin is dragging against his, warm and soft. Little shivers chase up his spine, tingles of excitement as Eliot mouth moves down to his. God, it's-- it's been way too long since he had this, intimate touch, heavy with intent. That must be why his eyes slide closed and his lips part before Eliot even kisses him. 

It's _warm_, when he does. Warm and deep and so _good_, God. Fuck, but Eliot's good at this. His hands come up to cup Quentin’s jaw, hold the back of his neck, guild him exactly where Eliot wants him and it’s like a needy, whining little part of Quentin’s brain just shudders and gives up, surrendering to Eliot’s hands. It feels _good_, the slide of Eliot’s warm, wet mouth against his, but the surrender offers its own kind of pleasure. He doesn’t have to try so hard, right now. He can just let Eliot _take_. 

"Mmmh, sweet little thing," Eliot murmurs, and it makes Quentin want to-- to give, open up, spread his legs and offer his soft belly, fuck. It’d be nice to claim it’s somehow a vampire thing, except Quentin _knows_ himself, knows he's just-- like this. It's embarrassing, and that draws a flush up to his skin, and Eliot smile darkens in response. "Come here," he coaxes, and Quentin does automatically, easily, climbing up into Eliot's lap. He settles with his legs spread, straddling him, and that alone is enough to make Quentin’s head spin. 

"I like--" Quentin starts, and then gets distracted touching his fingers to Eliot's mouth. It's pink and soft and warm, and when he pushed his thumb against Eliot's lips, he can feel the shapes of the long teeth. Eliot's lips part, letting him in, and Quentin gasp as Eliot's tongue brushes against the pad of his thumb like soft wet velvet. Curious, he runs his thumb over the edge of one sharp tooth, but it's-- like a razor blade, piercing, and he pulls back with a hiss, blood welling up on the pad of his thumb. 

"Fuck," he breathes, startled, but it hurts less than it seems like it probably should have.

Eliot's eyes, when Quentin looks up, have blown black. He's slowly running his tongue over the point of the tooth, looking at Quentin with an intensity that steals his breath. Careful, as though he's telegraphing his movements so as not to spook Quentin, Eliot reaches out. Curls his hand around Quentin's wrist gently but firmly, and pulls Quentin's hand toward his mouth. 

His tongue, when it flickers out to lick at the blood welling up on Quentin's thumb, is soft and pink. He looks-- pleased. Intent. 

"Is it-- good?" Quentin asks, in the edge of hysteria, not sure if he's asking _does it taste good _or _am I good? Do you like me-- like this, for this. _

Eliot hums happily in agreement, licking softly at Quentin’s finger until the blood stops seeping out. It doesn't hurt, he realizes with a little bit of surprise. The original puncture had, but not anymore.

"It is," Eliot confirms, licking his own lips, before pushing back to kiss Quentin softly. It doesn’t taste like copper or blood, but maybe it hadn’t been enough, for the taste to linger in Eliot’s mouth. "Everyone tastes a bit different. You taste thoughtful and sad and like you should probably eat more vegetables. But so sweet."

"Oh, um." Quentin wonders, suddenly, if Eliot can _taste _depression. Does his blood taste like it doesn't have enough serotonin? "Sometimes I get-- sad. Sometimes my brain breaks. Fuck, that's not very sexy, sorry just-- forget it."

"I think being allowed to know you better is very sexy," Eliot murmurs, raising Quentin’s wrist to his mouth. His lips brush softly over the slamming pulse, tongue darting out to lick the tender skin. "I'm going to bite you here. It gives me more control, and is less dangerous. It will also be less likely to remind you of Marina, I think."

"Okay," Quentin agrees, watching in fascination as Eliot's mouth moves on his wrist. They shift a little, so Quentin's not so much straddling Eliot as cradled against his chest, wrist held tenderly in Eliot's big elegant hand. Eliot’s tongue drags over the skin, again and again, and it’s almost soothing, somehow, the repetitive sensation. Quentin lets his head fall on to Eliot’s shoulder, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes. 

There’s a bright burst of pain, the feeling of sharpness dragging across his skin, and Quentin gasps. But Eliot holds him gently but firmly in place, and the pain passes quickly, fade to a dull throb and then entirely as Eliot’s mouth closes on the shallow cut, tonguing it gently. It doesn’t– feel like much of anything, Quentin thinks, relaxing into Eliot’s chest. Eliot’s tongue moves against the cut, keeping it from starting to heal, but it’s just– it just feels intimate, somehow. Not particularly sexy, maybe, but warm like a blanket. Good.

Eliot pulls back, once the cut has stopped bleeding, letting go of Quentin’s wrist to wrap both arms around him, hold him closer. They can’t make eye contact without shifting, but Quentin finds himself disinclined to do that, content curled up like he is. Eliot seems willing to let him get away with it, just drops his nose down to rest against the top of Quentin’s head.

“How are you doing?” he asks, gentle, and Quentin shivers, pushes into him a little. God, it must be his imagination that Eliot feels warmer.

“Good,” Quentin mutters back, trying to think through the blanket of _quiet_ descending in his brain. “It’s less, um. Intense? Than I expected.”

Eliot makes a soft sound somewhere between a laugh and a purr. “I’m not actively drawing the blood from the wound. It would be would be more intense if I were to. Well. Suck.” The way he says it makes Quentin giggle, a little loopy maybe, but when he tips back to meet Eliot’s gaze, he’s amused through the hunger in his eyes. “Quiet. I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

“I can take it,” Quentin promises, and well. Point of fact, he’s not sure if he _can_, but nothing about what he’s feeling right now is fear. He’s not sure he’s ever felt this safe before. 

“Yes, I suppose you can,” Eliot says thoughtfully, reaching up to touch his fingers against the edge of Quentin’s jaw. It’s a tender touch, and Quentin shivers, tucking his face back in against Eliot’s neck. “You may get hard, sweet thing. It’s natural. We are built, in some way, to evoke that reaction. Would you prefer to ignore it, or have me... touch you?”

Quentin’s face burns, and he’s so glad to have somewhere to hide it. “Touch me,” he replies, lips brushing against Eliot’s skin through the open collar of his shirt. His hand tightens slightly on Quentin’s neck, the first reaction at all to show him remotely physically affected by this. Quentin wants him to be, suddenly. He wants them both to be hard, he wants them both to be naked, wants all of Eliot’s skin against all of Quentin’s skin. 

Another time. 

Now, Eliot adjusts him slightly, tucking the cut arm in against Quentin’s chest and pulling the other up towards his mouth, going through the same process of licking and sucking on the skin. Quentin wonders, ideally, through the blanket of soft relaxation that’s settled over him, if there’s something in a Vampire’s saliva that acts as a topical anesthetic. The skin doesn’t feel _numb_, like he would expect, but nothing seems to hurt for long, either. He’ll have to ask about it later. For now, he can just lay here and– _Ah!_

Another sharp-scrap of pain, but this time when Eliot’s mouth closes over the cut, he doesn’t just lick, he seals his mouth over the wound and _sucks_. And it’s– 

_Fuck._

Intense doesn’t been to cover it. It’s like Quentin can _feel _his blood move towards Eliot’s mouth, like there’s a zing of awareness through his entire body, but it, well. It feels kind of localized around his nipples and cock, sweet throbs of pleasure in time with the gentle sucking of Eliot’s mouth.

“_Oh_,” he breathes, surprised, and, and, and– _needy_. Softly, he whines, “Oh fuck.”

A rumble of laughter vibrates through Eliot’s chest, but he doesn’t pull back or stop his gentle sucking. Quentin feels– he feels– _light_. Not dizzy or lightheaded, the way he had before, but like his entire body is suffused with carbonation. Like he might float away, were he not held in place by Eliot’s arms, but his hands, by his _mouth_. 

Eliot was right, he is getting hard, straining against the front of his jeans, stiff nipples dragging against the front of his shirt. But he feels too light and floaty to do anything about it, just– lays in Eliot’s lap, surrounded by him, safe, contained, small. God, it feels– why should something so dangerous feel so good? It’s so fucking _intimate, _and he’s going to be– he’s going to be _inside_ Eliot, now. Blood in his veins. It sends a shock of arousal through Quentin, and he whimpers a little, helplessly turned on.

It makes Eliot draw back, possibly interpreting it as a sound of pain, except when Quentin tries to protest, Eliot hushes him. “That’s all for now, sweet thing,” he coos, warm and soft, Quentin feels it like a caress. He watches, transfixed, as Eliot brings his own thumb up to his mouth, drags one fang over it until the blood wells up, then reaches down to rub over the bleeding cut on Quentin’s wrist. It tingles a little, but doesn’t hurt, and Quentin’s still– so hard. He’d be embarrassed about how obvious it must be, except embarrassment seems pointless now. 

It takes a couple of dry swallows before Quentin can give voice to anything, a soft plea of, “Eliot?” all he can manage.

“I’m here,” Eliot promises, like Quentin might not have known, like he doesn’t feel_ surrounded_. “You’ll heal completely within a matter of hours now.”

That– should be important. Quentin tries to make it feel important, but it doesn’t, not when Eliot’s hand has fallen to rest softly on his stomach, so _close_ but– not where he needs it. _You said you’d touch me_, he wants to plead, but can’t find the words. All he can do is whisper “_Please_,” shifting restlessly in Eliot’s lap. Eliot’s hard, he thinks, he can feel it pressing against the back of his thigh. But Eliot still seems unaffected, petting softly at Quentin’s stomach. 

“Okay,” Eliot replies, soothing, and then he’s working open the button on Quentin’s jeans, easing the zipper down so his cock can push free. 

It’s the weirdest, most intense handjob Quentin’s ever gotten. The feeling of _close, small, safe_ persists, but Eliot’s skin is almost hot now, and his hand on Quentin’s dick feels big, skilled and steady. “Kiss me,” Quentin begs, shameless, and when he does, it taste like copper. It doesn’t bother Quentin as much as he had expected, not when Eliot’s hot tongue is fucking into his mouth, and Eliot’s thumb is rubbing right under the head of Quentin’s cock, so brightly pleasurable it almost hurts.

Pleasure radiates through his whole body, pooling in his groin as his balls draw up tight, nipples achy, pulse throbbing at both his wrists. God, he’s wet, he’s _leaky_, Eliot’s hand gliding slickly over his cock, easy movement with the glide of precome. It’s almost a surprise when pleasure crests, a wave of _fuckyesgood_ that starts in his tight balls and spreads outwards, leaving him shaking. 

Quentin loses a bit of time after that. He’s aware, vaguely, of being shucked of his jeans, coaxed under a warm heavy quilt. Moments later, Eliot’s holding a bottle to his lips, which turns out to be some kind of sweet fruit juice. He drinks thirstily, letting Eliot feed him little sips. “There, that’s good,” Eliot murmurs, soft praise and encouragement, and Quentin sinks into it. Sinks into the bed, familiar and soft, and drifts a little, until Eliot’s lifting the quilt and sliding under it. Settling in close.

Blinking a little, coming back to himself, Quentin brings Eliot into focus. Gone are the shirt and vest and trousers, swapped out instead for a robe of gold and black. Eliot had been hard, he remembers, and feels a spike of guilt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t– I got kind of useless, I should have–”

Eliot hushes him again, hand sliding around Quentin’s neck to cup his skull. “You just experienced something very intense for the first time. I expected nothing more from you, I promise.”

It still feels wrong, but Quentin allows himself to be cajoled, cuddled in against Eliot under the blanket. His robe is gaping open at the front, and Quentin finds himself physically incapable of not reaching up, petting his hand over the fuzz of dark hair on his chest. Eliot sighs, humming a little, and Quentin moves to look up at him. 

“My blood’s in you,” Quentin says, softly, because he can’t stop thinking about that, rubbing his hand over Eliot’s hot skin and _knowing_ that heat come from him.

“It is,” Eliot agrees, fingers brushing softly through Quentin’s hair, gentle at the base of his skull. 

“That’s– _wild_,” Quentin laughs, incredulous. God, what would it be like to be_ fucked_ while this– to have Eliot inside him, knowing a part of him is inside Eliot– but, well. _Getting a bit ahead of yourself, there, Coldwater. _Eliot’s watching him carefully, holding him in close, and Quentin can’t help but wondering aloud, “Are you always this cuddly after?”

Eliot smiles, indulgent. “For anyone’s first time, I would be.” Quentin nods, because well, that makes sense, but Eliot’s fingers drift down, touching his cheek. “Many of the humans who do this often get off on the bite, but nothing more. You, I sense, would find a deeper kind of release in sex, even without the bite involved, than they might. That kind of trust requires a certain amount of tenderness.” 

_Tenderness_. Has Quentin ever been treated with tenderness before, by _anyone_? He’s not sure. He is sure he’s never felt like this before, wrapped up and protected. It’s such an incongruous feeling with what should really have felt a life-threatening experience. But not for a single moment was he worried that Eliot would harm him, not in any real way. Not after Eliot spent almost three days nursing Quentin back to health, before, not with how clearly careful he was being at every step.

“I like it,” he murmurs, which– should maybe be obvious, since he did _come_ after all, but– it feels important to be clear, somehow. 

“Good,” Eliot replies, still petting softly at his cheek with the backs of his knuckles. “I did as well.”

“Can we–” Quentin starts, and the bites his lip, afraid suddenly of being over-eager. But Eliot’s hand drifts down, wordlessly pressing his thumb to Quentin’s lip until he’s forced to release it, obey the silent request. “Can we do it again sometime?”

Eliot’s smile is bright in the darkness, broad enough to see the points of his fangs. “I think we could arrange that.”

––

It takes _months_ before Eliot will drink from Quentin when he’s actually hungry. 

Eliot is, first of all, a stickler about Quentin _recovering fully _between bites. Apparently something about the vampire-blood-to-heal-the-cut speeds up blood replenishment as well as knitting skin back together, so at least Quentin doesn’t have to wait for the full eight weeks generally recommend by like, human doctors. But it is, at the very least, two or three weeks before Eliot will even entertain the conversation of biting Quentin again, depending on how well he’s eating and hydrating. Oh, maybe Eliot will nick his lip a little during some heavy petting, lick the blood up off his skin, but it’s not– not the same. 

It would be worse, feel worse to be left waiting, if Eliot wasn’t suddenly so present in his life. It’s like the floodgates have opened, and there’s no closing them again. They text most nights, innocuous things, mostly, but– it’s nice. It _feels_ nice, to be on someone’s mind. Quentin finds himself in The Cottage often, on nights where Eliot doesn’t need to go out to feed or have other obligations to vampire society that he won’t tell Quentin about.

Eliot, apparently, loves to cook. This earns him no end of teasing from his housemates, but he seems unphased, reveling in the opportunity to cook for someone who can actually eat it.

“No garlic, I’m afraid. That is somewhat limiting, but it’s likely Alice and Penny would actually stake me if I were to get that smell all over the house,” Eliot sighs, stirring the pot of soup on the stove top, which smells _amazing_, garlic or no.

“I promise you, I will not be able to tell the difference,” Quentin says seriously, from where he’s tucked under Eliot’s arm, and then pulls away with a giggle when Eliot goes to jab at him playfully. The soup is wonderful, filling and hearty in the way that leaves Quentin feeling cared for, and later that night Eliot _finally _caves into letting Quentin blow him. 

“I don’t want to _lose control_,” is the usual protest, when it comes to Quentin giving him back anything sexual in return. Which is _sweet_, Quentin’s honestly never met someone who tries _so hard_ to do no harm, and it’s maybe an overcompensation for whatever naturally violent instinct Eliot feels but, well–

“Eliot,” Quentin says gently, hand cupped over the strain of the erection in Eliot’s carefully pressed trousers. “If I’m down on your dick, I’m about as far away from your teeth as it’s possible for me to _be_ and still be touching you.”

“Well, I suppose,” Eliot says, a little weakly, and Quentin knows immediately that he’s won. “When you frame it that way.”

So Quentin gets to settle down between his legs, and fit Eliot’s big, thick cock into his mouth, and feel Eliot’s hands in his hair, and listen to his soft, happy little sex noises. He gets to be small, and safe, and good in between Eliot’s thighs, give him this even if he can’t give him anything else yet. He gets to feel Eliot’s pleasure in every careful thrust, and gets to kiss him when he comes, messy with spit and just a little bit of blood.

But even when Eliot _will_ drink from him, he almost always feeds beforehand. They’re well into the Holiday season, the end of the semester bearing down on Quentin hard, before Eliot bends that rule. 

Quentin is– Well. 

He’s stressed. Okay? He’s stressed, and trying very hard to remember why he thought a masters degree in Philosophy was a good life plan, and Julia’s stressed because law school is brutal, and James is stressed because he’s going to have to defend his thesis soon, and somehow the literal creature of darkness is the brightest point of Quentin’s life. 

He takes to studying in the cafe outside Eliot’s club of choice, actually _studying, _because _shitfuckballsass_ he spent half this semester thinking with his dick and not his brain and now he’s going to _pay for it._ But if he studies in the cafe, Eliot will wander in around closing time, blood-warm and relaxed, and collect him. Take him back to The Cottage where they can ignore Margo’s teasing and Alice’s sniping and Kady’s amusement and Penny’s crotchetiness, and Quentin can curl up in Eliot’s stupid big bed where he feels _stupidly, stupidly_ safe, and try to avoid letting his life crash and burn around him.

Quentin doesn’t exactly _mean_ to go right to The Cottage after class, one chilly day in early December, but he’d left his textbook for Probability & Decision Theory in Eliot’s room two days and he needs it to review something for analysis paper he’s working on, and it’s not until he’s standing outside the cottage that he realizes that the sun won’t be down for another two hours. 

He knows, theoretically, that the residents of the cottage are sometimes awake and moving around in the late afternoon. The house has heavy, _heavy_ black-out curtains extensively covering every window, so they do– _do things_, sometimes, before sun down. But it would be really hard to get into the building without letting any sunlight in. 

He dawdles, for a moment, on the walkway up to the front door, before pulling out his phone to text Eliot: **Am I going to accidentally light anyone on fire if I open the front door right now?**

Little typing bubbles pop up immediately, so at least Eliot’s awake. 

**El: The door’s locked but I can come unlock it. Wait a minute or so after you hear the bolt.**

Quentin waits two, and opens the door carefully, then darts quickly inside. The Cottage, predictably is dark, especially coming inside from the bright daylight. All of its residents can see well enough in the dark, though they do keep lamps and lights and candles lit often most of the time. But it’s early enough in their day, maybe, that no one has bothered to light any yet. So Quentin’s left blinking in the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. 

There’s a small click, and the lamp by the couch flickers on, casting Eliot into a wash of light and shadow. He’s mussed, wearing a robe and not much else, and Quentin wonders idly if he’d been lazing around in bed, having a languorous start to his evening. 

“No one would burst into flames, you know,” Eliot says softly, fondly, by way of greeting. “One would simply receive a very bad sunburn, very quickly.”

“Another lie perpetuated by mythology,” Quentin agrees, the tension in his shoulders relaxing already as he strolls over to Eliot. “Right up there with sleeping in coffins and turning into a bat.”

“I’ve always thought that would be amusing. The ability to fly was a childhood dream of mine,” Eliot sighs, reaching out to catch Quentin’s hands in his, lean down to kiss him softly. His skin is cool, not cold but chilled, enough to make Quentin shiver after the walk in the December air. “Hello, sweet boy. Did we have plans that I forgot about?”

“No,” Quentin laughs, ruefully. “I forgot my book here. And, I don’t know. I haven’t seen you for a couple days. I can just take the book and go, though, if you’ve got something to do.”

Eliot shrugs, thumbs rubbing into the palms of Quentin’s hand. “I was going to feed, but I could put it off another night.”

It sends a spike of interest, curiosity and something hotter, more primal through Quentin. It’s been weeks since Eliot fed from him, and he’s been eating well (mostly thanks to Eliot) and hydrating (mostly thanks to Julia and her need to make stress-relief tea). He should have blood to spare today. 

“Or, you could– not put it off,” Quentin suggest, trying for coy but probably missing given that he’s well. Him. Coy may not work, but he can step up close into Eliot’s space, drop his face down on to the skin of his chest, revealed by the haphazardly tied robe. Eliot’s skin is cool under his cheek, nose, mouth as he nuzzles through the hair there, presses a kiss over where Eliot would have a heartbeat, if he wasn’t what he is. 

“Quentin,” Eliot says, voice a little shaky, and Quentin wonders how warm he must feel to Eliot, even with the tip of his nose chilly from the winter air. A flick of tongue against cool skin, and Eliot gasps, nudges him back gently. 

“You won’t hurt me,” Quentin says, with a surety he feels down to the tips of his toes. _Months_ of Eliot being careful, _showing_ that he’s deserving of Quentin’s trust, and now all Quentin wants is this, to give when it’s actually needed.

“I _could_ hurt you,” Eliot sighs, but it’s not really a protest. Just a reminder, like it’s important Quentin knows it's a possibility.

“You could. And you could hurt the random boy you were going to go feed from, too. But you won’t. You wouldn’t,” Quentin says, confidently. It’s been a century since Eliot’s taken a human life, Quentin knows. The details of the rift between the house and their sire are a closely guarded secret, but he knows it started with Eliot around the time Alice and Kady were turned in the early 1920s, then fractured completely with Penny. 

“You test my willpower,” Eliot says, hand coming up to brush with the backs of his fingers, knuckles against the front of Quentin’s throat. His palm settles there, over the beat of Quentin’s pulse, and Quentin swallows. “Not that I had much of it to begin with. I am a selfish and vain creature, after all.”

Quentin doesn’t point out how untrue this is, how much control Eliot exerts of himself every single day of his life. Not-life. Undeath. “Please, let me give it to you,” Quentin ask, soft into the intimate space between their bodies, and Eliot– 

Smiles, soft, small enough to hide his teeth. “Don’t you have studying to do?”

“I'll study after,” Quentin lies, both of them knowing he won’t.

He won’t. He’ll curl up in Eliot bed, and feel held and safe and small, and maybe sleep, or maybe talk, or made read aloud from one of the hundreds of books Eliot’s collected over the years but never bothered to read. 

"Alright," Eliot agrees, and Quentin feel a rush of excitement as Eliot takes his hand and leads him up the stairs. 

There’s something insanely intimate about the whole thing, sitting on the end of Eliot’s bed barefoot, stripped down to only jeans and a t-shirt while Eliot methodically lights candles, giving the room a warm musky scent today. Woodsmoke and leather and tobacco. Quentin wonders idly how much money Eliot spends on scented candles. 

Then he stops wondering much of anything, as Eliot steps over to him, and Quentin slides his legs apart easily, thoughtlessly so Eliot can standing close, lean down to kiss him. They’ve kissed and touched before when Eliot’s on the edge of needing to feed, so the chill of his mouth isn’t entirely unfamiliar. But it’s always been careful, reserved, and it’s none of that now. 

Eliot kisses him filthy and deep, slow, long sucking kisses with his hands twisted in Quentin hair, tugging on his shirt. He feels big and solid and purposeful like this, leaning over Quentin so he has to strain up to meet Eliot's mouth. Fuck, he _likes _it, likes the stretching of it, how _small_ it makes him feels. 

Eliot's mouth falls open and Quentin pushes in thoughtlessly, shuddering at the feeling, the _fuck_ of it, sliding part of his body into Eliot's body. It's a bit of a surprise when his tongue catches on a sharp tooth, a little flash of pain, but then Eliot's moaning, hands going tight on Quentin's shoulder, his head, holding him in place while Eliot sucks on his tongue and Quentin's blood lights up in response. 

He ends up sprawled out backwards on the bed, stripped naked and blissed out while Eliot sets his teeth into the tender skin on Quentin's stomach, drawing blood to the surface with his tongue, with careful sucks that seems to pull the blood _right _through Quentin’s dick. He's left a moaning, shaking mess, hands twisted into Eliot's curls, nipples hard, cock hard as warmth spreads throughout Eliot's body. Quentin can _feel_ it, every place their skin touches. 

"_El_," he sobs at one particularly hard suck, and it's everything he can do not to writhe, rub his dick up against Eliot's chest. Eliot breaks away with soft sucking sound, dragging his tongue over the punctures.

"I can taste how hard you are," Eliot murmurs, nose dragging against Quentin belly. "I can _taste it, _in your blood, how much you want it."

"I want-- I want you to fuck me," Quentin pants, grabbing at Eliot's curls, pulling his head up. His mouth is blood-red, eyes blown black, and Quentin _wants_, so badly.

Eliot gives, with a slow methodical purpose, fitting fingers into Quentin one at a time until he feels stuffed full. Sharp nips of teeth shallowly on the inside of his thighs leak out more blood, and Eliot takes that too, tongue warm now on Quentin’s skin. 

Not until he's in slid inside, the stretch of his dick so thick that Quentin swears he can feel it everywhere, does Eliot's mouth find his throat. Then it's another shallow puncture and _suction, _Quentin's blood alive in his body, his mind gone quiet. He feels surrounded by Eliot, full of him, while at the same time he feels his own heat in Eliot's body. It's so much, it's _so much feeling_, the thought of it is overwhelming. Eliot's warm belly drags over his cock, sparking sensation, and Quentin is helpless to do anything but clench down on the drag of it inside of him, and let himself be taken. 

Afterwards, Eliot messily smears his own blood over every bite mark, the tingling sensation of being healed settled into Quentin body. He feels loose, relaxed and far away, but not light headed or dizzy. Eliot had, as always, been exceedingly careful with him, and is as attentive as ever after, plying him with fruit juice and soft touches.

Quentin presses his hand to the center of Eliot's chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, that fresh-fed heat. "My warmth," he mutters absently, run his hand, his face, as much of his body against Eliot's skin as he can. "I gave this to you."

"You did," Eliot agrees fondly, cradling Quentin in close. "Rest now. You should rest."

Quentin thinks, as he drifts into a light dose, that he could never have imagined this kind of intimacy. He'd never thought he could be this content. 

__

Depression, inevitably, comes for Quentin eventually. This time it takes the shape of–

"London?"

He's sitting at one side of a small square table, facing Julia and James presenting a united front beside and across from him. The restaurant is nice enough that he'd only agreed to go when James promised to pick up the tab, and he'd been suspicious of it then. He gets it now. Get him out in public, where self-consciousness and social anxiety will prevent him from making a scene. Very clever, a very Julia idea. 

"James got headhunted by a company there," Julia continues, like _finance_ was such a hard field to find a job in. "It's an incredible opportunity, and they'll pay to get us settled, but only if he goes right after graduation in May."

Quentin's ears are ringing a little, numbness in his cheeks like he's a little low on blood. He must have gone pale, Quentin thinks absently, wonders if Eliot will comment on it. Run his thumb across the apple of Quentin's cheek to draw the blood back up. "What about–" Quentin stops and clears his throat, then makes himself stop staring at his plate and look up at his friends. His _only_ friends, at least– the only ones with a pulse. "What about Columbia? We've still got another year."

"I talked to my advisor about it," Julia says delicately, folding her napkin in her lap. "One semester I need to do an internship, and I can do that anywhere. The rest of the classes I need to take can either be done online or at a partner university there."

Fuck, this is _happening. _This isn't a _we're weighing our options_ conversation, the options have already been weighed. They've already made a decision about it, they're just– filling him in on the outcome. "Oh, um. That's good," he mutters, and tries, really tries to find it in him to be excited for them. Manages to sound genuine, he thinks, when he looks up to meet James's eyes and say, "Congratulations, man, that sounds like a great opportunity."

"See, I told you he'd be cool about it," James says jovially, nudging Julia's side, and Quentin holds back a wince. Of course Julia had been worried about how to _handle_ him. "Jules talked to her parents about the apartment and everything."

Fuck, the apartment. The apartment where Quentin lived, which was actually a condo owned by Julia's parents, who he paid rent to. Jesus, he hadn't even _thought_–

"They're totally happy to have you stay there," Julia cuts in, hand reaching out to fall on his. "You'll probably need a roommate to cover some of the rent, but–"

Quentin almost laughs, because it's not like _Julia_ pays rent now. So her parents will be hiking the price of the place on him. Great. "Thanks," he says instead, because, well. They're in public, and money is something he and Julia have never exactly been on the same page about. They come from completely different worlds, in that way. "Thanks for talking to them."

"Of course," Julia says, all sincere, like she doesn't get that she's– _abandoning–_

He cuts off that train of thought. He can have that crisis later, now, apparently, they're celebrating. He can put on a good face and try to be happy for his friends, at least for a couple hours.

Of course, the crisis _does_ catch up with him, and in a big fucking way.

In a miss-class, stop-showering, been-two-days-since-i-got-out-of-bed-or-checked-my-phone kind of way. He knows, he _knows_ that this reaction isn't–proportional. People move _all the time_. Friends live in different cities, it's not like– it's not like it's 1850, Eliot's stories about receiving letters by post coming to life. They can call and FaceTime and email and text and tweet at each other. Honestly, it's not like he sees Julia that much _now, _between their totally different tracks of study and her time with James and his time as snack food for a creature of the night... It's not like he doesn't _know_ he's over-reacting.

He does know.

He fucking _hates_ himself for it, and he can't _stop_ and that makes it _worse_. That he's such an utter piece of shit that he can't just– can't just– can't just _handle_ his shit, that he's a _burden_ on everyone. Everyone, meaning the _two _fucking people he has in his life, who are _leaving–_

He wants– Stupidly, he wants to see Eliot. Feeling miserable, an utter piece of shit, he just wants the way it feels to be cradled against Eliot's chest, arm or neck up to his mouth, the slow, sweet feeling of purpose as Eliot licks and suckles gently, coaxing out blood with his tongue. The way it feels as warmth spreads physically through Eliot's body, to know that _heat_, that _life in him_ came from Quentin. That Quentin could give him that. He wants to curl up in the curve of Eliot's body in his big four-poster bed, breath in the smell of whatever candles Eliot's burning, listen to him tell some wildly outrageous story about some party he went to with Oscar Wilde, which is almost certainly at least 50% fabrication. He'd even take hiding in Eliot's side in the common space of The Cottage like he's done once or twice before, watching Eliot interact with his house-mates, his _family._ He'd take Margo's teasing and Kady's skepticism, Alice's distance and Penny's showy irritation, if it meant he could have Eliot.

He wants it, but he can't– he can't make himself reach for it. That barrier between him and the rest of the world, it's standing between him and this as well. More than once he finds himself thumbing open his phone to just stare at Eliot's name in their text thread, at the last message from him (about a cooking show Eliot's watching, because he's a _ridiculous_ vampire._) _Quentin's staring at the phone, failing to function like fucking human being, when another text from Eliot buzzes in. 

**El: Penny's insisting on a "boy's night," please help. What does this mean? You have straight male friends, what do I do with this?**

Straight male friends, being– James, pretty much. Eliot and Penny have been cohabiting longer than Quentin and James have been _alive_, it's not like Quentin really has much to offer on this subject. Instead he loses another 4 hours of his evening staring at the wall, think about all the times he's been dragged out with James's finance bros, how out of place he'd felt, how stupidly grateful he was every single time, that James kept inviting him. That he didn’t see Quentin as just an awkward clinger-on to Julia, that James seemed to give a shit in his own right.

Quentin's phone buzzes again, another text from Eliot. Quentin thumbs it open to a picture, a selfie, very unimpressed Eliot standing next to Penny a line outside in the dark. It's captioned with: **We're going to see an action movie. Apparently I'm not supposed to acknowledge that the cars are allegories for dicks.**

Quentin stares at his phone until the battery dies, trying to think of a response. Then he lets it fall to the bed and rolls over, letting the slow drip of tears leak out of him into the pillow. Can't make himself reach across the distance of a few feet get the phone charger and plug it in. Can't make himself do anything. He should– 

he should eat something. Routine blood lost has made him much better about his eating and hydration habits, only partially because Eliot can _taste_ if he's not feeding himself properly and _will_ stop after a single lick over a small scratch to frog-march Quentin downstairs and force food and water into him. It's happened more than once. Quentin– doesn't like it, because that would be weird. So he's been better about eating, which means he _knows_ he needs to eat now.

Even just – fucking cereal, how goddamn difficult is it to drag your ass out of bed and go eat cereal. Just eat it out of the fucking box, it's not like it'd be the first time in his life he's sat on the kitchen floor eating dry cereal, and it probably won't be the last. Except– this time, the last thing in the _world_ he wants is for Julia to find him like that. Because then she'll see, and she'll _know_, and she'll be angry at him for ruining her good thing. Or, even worse, she _won't_ be angry, she'll be kind and treat Quentin like a broken child, and all her worry will be justified and he'll just want to fucking _die_–

Well. 

That wouldn't exactly be the first time for that, either.

But Quentin's used to being awake at night, these days, and by 3am he can be pretty sure that Julia's either out of the apartment or deeply asleep enough not to notice him. It takes– a lot longer than it should, really, to will himself up, drag stiff limbs out into the kitchen. He drops his phone onto the wireless charging pad they keep in there, because somehow that's less effort than going through the process of plugging it in, and tries to find– something to eat. There's cup-of-noodles in the pantry. That's– low effort, right? Add water, microwave. Two steps. He can do two steps.

His phone turns back on while he's staring into the stream of water pour out of the faucet, trying to find the energy to take the packing off the stupid styrofoam cup. It takes a lot longer than it should. The phone on the counter starts buzzing, as he sticks the stupid pot of dry noodles in the microwave, and _keeps_ buzzing for a good 30 seconds into the microwave cycle. 

Fuck. A full day he'd been unconscious at The Cottage, and he'd missed one message in a groupchat. Now, his phone is off 12 hours and it's– well, it's probably all dumb app notifications, he thinks, as he pulls noodles out of the microwave and covers them to sit and steep, digs a fork out of the dish-wrack by the sink. _It's just app notifications_, he tells himself, as he thumbs open the phone, tapping the fork against his lower lip absently. 

It's not just app notification.

There's 4 messages from Eliot, one from a number Quentin doesn't have saved, and one from the JQJ group chat. Heart in his throat, Quentin checks the last one first, but it's just an fyi to Q that Julia will be out for the weekend. Well. At least he doesn't have to worry about waking her.

He fights the urge to ignore Eliot's messages, ridiculous and unreasonable because he wants to talk to Eliot more than _anything_, it's just his stupid brain doing _stupid_ things. He reads the text from the unknown number instead, which came 3 hours ago and reads: **pull your head out of your twat and answer Eliot before i stake him. **So probably Margo, then, based on context clues. Guilt roils in Quentin's stomach, the pit of shame that always came with knowing that his broken brain was hurting someone else. He doesn't _want_ to hurt anyone, he's just– a piece of shit.A deep breath, and Quentin taps open Eliot's messages.

The first is from two hours after the last read message, which simply says: **The cars were ABSOLUTELY dick allegories.**

Then, next, from 15 hours after Eliot's first unanswered message: **Quentin, is everything alright?**

Next, from 10 hours ago: **You don't have to speak with me, by any means, but I would appreciate you letting me know you're safe.**

The last, send two hours ago, is the longest: **At the risk of sounding like a possessive and stalking creature of the night, I'm going to swing by your building. I'm concerned, and given that I met you first on the verge of death, I think I am justified in it. However, I can not enter your home without invitation, so either stick your head out the window and tell me to fuck off, or invite me in. I'll be there until sunrise.**

Quentin glances at the window, heart in his throat. It's still dark out, patterns of night in the winter affording them longer nights where sunrise came closer to 7 than 5. The fork falls to the counter with a clatter but he ignores it, stumbling over to the living room window which looks down on the street. He can make out, only just the shape of a figure sitting on the steps outside the front door, dark hair and dark clothes in the inkiness of night. With numb fingers he fumbles open the window and the sliding screen, so he can get his head out and call down: "Eliot?"

Eliot's head snaps up and he's on his feet in the space of a blink, looking up at Quentin with an unreadable expression. Quentin can barely make out his face between the distance and the darkness, but his voice carries when he asks, carefully, "Can I come in?"

"Yeah. Yeah, yes, um," Quentin stumbles over himself, voice rough with disuse. He tries to remember the parlance Eliot had used in his message. "I um– I invite you in? I just have to go– buzz the door?"

"Thank you," Eliot replies, and Quentin dashes over to the lock box, fumbling with the buzzer for the entrance. He can hear the click and close of the front door through the open window, and he flips the lock on the apartment door and then spends the next minute rooted the spot, having a very quiet and intense panic attack. He maybe stops breathing. There are maybe iron bands around his chest, or possible his heart is going to explode. Eliot's _here_, and Quentin hasn't showered in like four days, and hasn't eaten in at least two, and fuck, his stupid noodles are probably going cold, and Quentin should _eat them_ but Eliot's–

Knocking softly on the door. 

Quentin had expected him to just come in, but maybe he's too polite for that, or maybe he needs to be invited again, or– 

"Quentin?" Eliot calls softly through the door, and Quentin stumbles into motion, fumbling the sliding door until he can haul it open, and he fucking nearly starts crying again because Eliot's real and solid and _there_ and _worried_, his beautiful face marred by a worry line down the center of his brow.

"Hi," Quentin breathes, still standing in the doorway like an idiot.

Eliot straightens up to his full and considerable height, hands clasping behind his back, all proper and collected. "Hello. Thank you for letting me see you. I was– I apologize for forcing my presence on you, I was simply. I was concerned. But I can leave you alone, if you're alright–"

"I'm not," Quentin chokes out, and Jesus, he's shaking, he's going to cry, he's really going to cry, right here in the doorway in front of Eliot. "I'm not, I'm– not, I'm not alright, Eliot. I'm not alright."

Eliot's face softens, goes tender and worried. His voice, when he speaks, is like a blanket, warm and soft and comforting. "Can I help with that?"

Quentin swallows, throat sore and eyes hot and nose hot and face hot and– nods. Steps aside so Eliot can come in.

It's easy, to stand with his weight tucked into Eliot's chest, zoning out while Eliot dumps his soggy noodles and goes through the process of scrambling eggs and vegetables in a pan. They taste rich and sharp and good, as Eliot coaxes him into eating, fingers warm where he's petting Quentin's hair. He must have fed recently, Quentin thinks, absently, as he chews a green pepper, and is less jealous about the idea than he might have been. Whoever Eliot fed from tonight, they were only there so Eliot could be sure he'd be safe to stay with Quentin for a couple days. The blood didn't matter. Eliot's hands on him did.

The act of eating is exhausting, and he wants nothing more than to pass out again, maybe with Eliot on top of him, physically crushing his soul back inside his body. But Eliot gently bullies him into the shower first, and Quentin goes where he's bid, standing under the spray until he feels boiled and waterlogged, but clean. There's clean, soft clothes waiting for him when he emerges, and he shrugs into them, stumbling back to his room on exhausted feet to find Eliot in the final stages of changing his sheets. That, for some reason, is the final straw, and he does start crying then, heavy racking sobs that shake his whole body and _hurt_ in his chest. His knees give out, sending him tumbling towards the floor, but Eliot catches him before he can land, tucking him into the clean sheets with his arms around Quentin's chest. 

"You're safe, my love, everything will be fine," Eliot murmurs softly into Quentin's hair, petting him just as he'd imagined, and Quentin clings to him. Helpless. 

He has just enough brainpower left to notice the heavy blanket tucked over the single window in his room, blocking sunlight, but that's– that good. It means Eliot can stay. Quentin can, finally, let go.

__

He sleeps for a full 12 hours, warm in the crook of Eliot's body. It's rare that they get to actually sleep together, during the day when Eliot's naturally inclined for restfulness. They've existed in the in between hours for months, sunset to midnight, or early mornings before sunrise. But with the heavy blanket on the window, the room is dark enough for Eliot to sleep comfortably, and he's still asleep when Quentin wakes, late in the afternoon.

He checks his phone, answers Margo's text with a picture of Eliot's sleeping face, and asks Julia to pick up milk when she does come home, just to have a reason to text her, let her know that he's-- alive? Going to answer his phone? Then he plugs it in and rolls over, settling in to watch Eliot sleep. His dark eyelashes are fanned out against his cheek, the thin skin under his eyes. A soft ringlets of hair as fallen down across his face, and Quentin curls his fingers through it, wondering idly about why vampires would need to sleep. Was it a habit, left over instinct from when their bodies were human? But Eliot clearly had a metabolism of some type, and his cuts healed, as long as he had enough blood. 

Maybe they weren't so different after all. 

"I can hear your mind racing," Eliot says, soft into the space between them, eyes still closed. 

"Not really," Quentin protests, but it's the first time in days he's had the energy to be curious. He doesn't want to throw it away like it doesn't matter. Eliot's eyes blink open, soft warm hazel in the darkness, hand flexing on Quentin’s side as he stretched and adjusts. Hesitantly, Quentin reaches up to touch the point of Eliot's chin, brush the dimple there, and starts, "Thank you. For checking on me. For-- staying. And taking care of me."

"It's nothing," Eliot says, easily, but it is, it is something, it's important when-- when he's the only one who thought to do it. Maybe he can read some of it on Quentin’s face, because he amends: "I'm happy to do it. Caring for you isn't a hardship, sweet thing."

Quentin swallows, feeling suddenly on the edge of tears again. "I think your the only one who thinks that."

Eliot's brow furrows, his hand sliding up into Quentin’s hair. "What happened?" 

"Julia's moving," Quentin starts, and it's like the floodgates open. "She and James are moving to London. And I know it's not– about me, it's _not_, he's got a good opportunity and they've been together for 4 years, of course she's going to go with him. Of course she is, but she's my best friend and I've known her my whole life. I've never– never lived in a city without her before. And she and James are my_ only _people. My dad's gone and my mom doesn't speak to me and I'm going to be alone–"

"You are _not_ alone," Eliot cuts in urgently, hand cupping the back of Quentin's head, guiding him up so they can make eye contact. "Quentin, I know this is a terrible change, and I understand your devastation, but you are not alone. I'm here and so are my housemates."

_For how long_, wonders the scared and cynical voice in the back of Quentin's mind that knows Eliot can get blood anywhere. And that's not _fair_, because Eliot has never treated him like just a food source, quite the opposite. It doesn't change the fact that he can't believe he's held Eliot's attention as long as he has. "I'm going to get in your way eventually."

"You're not, darling. You will always have a place at The Cottage," Eliot promises, fingers moving to tangling softly through Quentin. It's a kind thing to say, but it's not– it's not really true, is it? Eliot's housemates might tolerate him like a pet, amused as long as Eliot does all the walking and feeding, but he's not–

"I'm not a part of your world," Quentin points out, dropping his nose down against Eliot's collarbone. He smells like expensive cologne and musk, not at all like something– undead. Eliot, he thinks, is the most alive person Quentin's ever met.

"You are," Eliot insists, cupping the back of Quentin's neck tilting his head up so their eyes can meet. "You could stop giving me blood tomorrow, and I'd still have a place for you in my life. In my _home." _

The words are tumbling out of Quentin's mouth before he's even really conscious of them. "Would you turn me?"

Eliot's face passes rapidly through a series of emotions, and then finally shudders, more guarded than he's been since the first night they spoke. "No," he says quietly, and Quentin's stomach drops with an icy splash before Eliot continues to speak. "I won't do that. The relationship between a sire and fledgling is complicated, and it would _change_ us. If... you feel, after consideration and time and lots of thought, that this is a change you want to make, I won't stand in your way. I would welcome you, gladly, into our family, into our life. I would teach you to feed, and share blood and laughter and _centuries_ with you. But I can't be your sire, Quentin. Because eventually that's _all_ I would be to you."

"Oh," Quentin says weakly, because– _centuries_. That's a terrifying and exciting prospect. "How would– who could turn me?"

Eliot seems to think for a minute. "Margo," Eliot says thoughtfully, thumb brushing against the edge of Quentin's neck. "She's the oldest of us, the strongest, and I trust her to do it kindly. She'd maybe even let me help, drink from you together before she fed you her blood. And she's–"

"Your girl," Quentin fills in, feeling warm at the idea of Eliot sharing Margo with him, sharing him with Margo. Being a thing that ties them together, being tied together by them.

"Yes," Eliot agrees, smiling softly, thumb still brushing over Quentin's pulse. "She'd do it, if we asked. But Quentin... this is not a thing we should rush. I would ask you to take _years_ to think it through. If you wish to stay on this path, then years are a paltry sum. I know you feel– abandoned and alone, at present. Perhaps like there's nothing left tying you to a mortal life. I would ask you to take the time to be sure. Please. For my sake. I could not bear you coming to hate me for allowing you to throw away your life."

_Wouldn't I be swapping one life for another, _Quentin wants to protest, but he makes himself stop. Listen to Eliot's concerns and hear them, understand them. "Okay. I'll think about it."

"I will still keep space for you in my heart, whatever your choice," Eliot murmurs softly, and Quentin could cry, it's so sweet. This kind, gentle man, who was nothing like the monster he should be. Quentin tilts his face up, silently asking for a kiss, and Eliot gives it, easy and soft and gentle.

"I love you," Quentin says, quietly, once they part, watching surprise and elation flicker across Eliot's face. "That will be a factor in whatever choice I make. I just– it has to be."

"As it should be," Eliot agrees, a forced bravado that Quentin can see through easily. Eliot is _stunned_. Quentin grins, nosing back in for another kiss, and another, flirting his tongue dangerously along the edge of one sharp tooth. Eliot pulls away with a gasp. "You," he pants, thumb pressing into Quentin's chin, "– do not have enough nutrients in your body right now to be giving any of them to me."

Quentin laughs, snuggling into Eliot's arms. "Cook me dinner, then," he teases, ear over the stillness in Eliot's chest. He doesn't miss a heart-beat at all. "You might only have a couple more years to try things out on me. Gotta make the most of it."

"Indeed," Eliot agrees, but shows no sign of going to pull away. That's fine, Quentin doesn't want him to.

Outside, the sun finishes setting, bathing the apartment in darkness. It's oddly welcoming.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check out [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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